Dreams and Tears
by GoldenRoya
Summary: A monster doesn't dream. A monster doesn't cry. But when Mr. Gold sleeps, he learns that the difference between monster and man may be a lot thinner than all that. Maybe as thin as a whisper of dream-smoke.
1. Dream

_I own much. I do not own _Once Upon a Time,_ more's the pity, though I'm making a bid to own at least a bit of the lore with this story... Set before 'Skin Deep,' this story is dually inspired by the show and Paul Byrom's song "If I Could Cry," though this latter inspiration won't truly be showing its head until the second chapter. Funny how inspiration works, isn't it? I meant to write about tears and got sidelined into dreams instead. Anyhow, please read and review! Reviews are my happy ending ~  
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><p>Gold wandered.<p>

It was woods, this time. The trees around him soared up, a canopy that barely admitted there was a sky, much less a sun. It was raining up there, probably; water was dripping down all around, making flat splashes on the broad leaves of the undergrowth - hellebore, Jack-in-the-pulpit, other plants that Rumple couldn't identify.

_Huh. When did that happen? _he asked himself. It was Mr. Gold dreaming, he knew that much, because he had been Mr. Gold when he went to sleep, but it was undoubtedly Rumpelstiltskin who stood there being dreamed _of_. His skin was green, for one thing.

But that didn't perturb him. He was often Rumpelstiltskin when he dreamed. It had used to be disturbing to his human self, but by now he was accustomed to it. No, what perturbed him was the same thing that always perturbed him in his dreams: that he _was _dreaming.

_Monsters don't dream._ He was a monster. A card-carrying member of the Oogy-Boogy club, if, in fact, there had been such a club and they were so prosaic as to issue cards. That was a fact of life; had been ever since he'd picked up that thrice-damned dagger. And whatever else characterized monsters, the fact remained that _monsters do not dream._

And yet here he was, dreaming.

He looked about him as he walked, peering into thickets, glancing behind trees, searching out the source of every sound. He didn't know what he was looking for, but his dream-self felt the urgency of it, that he had to _know_, had to _find_… something.

When had he begun dreaming again? He searched back through his memory.

All the time he had been Mr. Gold, he had been able to dream. How long was that? His waking self was fuzzy on that score; then again, to his waking self, everything was fuzzy. Part of the curse. He was still sharper than everyone else, excepting, probably, the queen, though Regina had never let slip that she knew more than she could be expected to know. Hah, as if _that_ were any clue - Gold kept his own counsel and knew that the queen, his old rival, his old adversary, his old enemy, did the same. He would forget this dream when he awoke, as he always did, as he always forgot about the curse when he was awake, but the sense of it would still be there, waiting in his subconscious for the next time he slept.

And so, as he wandered, and his dream-body searched, Rumpelstiltskin thought. _How long have I been able to dream?_

It had started before the curse. Of that much, he was quite certain. He could remember waking up, magic-less and desperate in that cave of a cage, grasping for the whisps of dream-smoke as they vanished into the ether, the only escape those bars of iron afforded. He had dreamed then, he knew. But had he dreamed before?

Memory is tricky. Memory of another world, another life, trickier still. Memory trying to sneak out the back window of a mind with a curse on it, firmly ensconced within it, trickiest of all. One can't grab, naughty-naughty, hands to yourself and be patient young Rumple…

His dream-self smiled. Once the parlance started coming back, his old habits of speech and thought, memory recall couldn't be far behind.

His steps brought him through a thicket of flowers. Raspberry blooms, small stars nodding their heads as fat yellow bees hummed about the thorns, helping themselves, beside lily of the valley, white blossoms dangling all in a row like church bells; pretty, many-petaled asters claiming their corner while a wild rose bush sprawled in pride-of-place alongside the path, her pink flowers seeming to nod him down the trail. It wasn't here, the thing he was looking for, but the flowers sparked a hint of a thought.

Rumple followed the path, desperately holding himself back from lunging at that gossamer thread of memory, watching the roses as they passed beyond him.

_Roses. Wild roses. Red roses. A single, red rose… on a table…_

He knew that image. It was no phantasm of a dream, it had been real. It had been… a memory. A cherished memory. _A monster has something he can cherish?_

Rumple stopped, closed his eyes. Let the scent of damp flowers and wet woods wash across him, teasing his hair back. His table. It had been his table. A hand held the rose, not his, not green, not thick, not male…

And then the thought failed him. He hurtled after it, but it was gone. Dream-smoke. His disappointment threatened to wake him up, but Rumple calmed himself, soothed his sleeping body down, back to the dream. He didn't want to wake yet. Still so much to do!

He executed a hop and a twirl, settling his mind back down into the thought-track of Rumpelstiltskin, then shook his head in disgust at himself. He'd never had to caper for himself, not back in the real world, in the land of fairy tales. Others, yes, absolutely. A goblin cutting a jig could name his own terms. A green-skinned orc playing the fool set everyone who encountered him back on their heels as their minds scrambled to hand them a script for _this_ ludicrousness. It kept people off-balance. It kept them wondering.

It kept them at arms' length and out of his business, is what it did. A strange body doing strange things - they cut Deals they'd later regret, just so they could get out of his weird company. Did wonderful things for his business. Not so wonderful for his personal life.

And with that thought, it all came flooding back.

_Belle! _

Anguish seared his soul, and he cried out, falling to his knees there in the middle of the wet loam.

_Belle!_

How could he have forgotten her? Even for an instant, even under the curse, how could he have forgotten?

_Belle!_

His agony ripped through him like a lightning bolt, rending him speechless and immobile.

And then settled down, in the pit of his stomach, a throbbing ache that was as familiar to him as his own hand. He had mourned her. He remembered that now. Her loss. Her death. He'd… not come to terms, no. Accepted it, maybe. That he would never see her face again. That she was gone. That her face was a mere memory, that he could only see here, in his dreams.

_How long have I been dreaming? _

_Since her._

A monster didn't dream. But with her… With her, he had been a man.


	2. Tears

_Credit goes to natural-blue-26 for the inspiration for the last section of this. My muse is very susceptible to suggestion, and much was provided. Thanks! There are probably going to be some AU bits once the show fills in backstory, but in the meantime, I'm going to have fun mucking about with the characters and their history. I don't own OUAT, but I'll gladly lay claim to this version of Rumple. I'm getting rather attached. Once again, please review! Reviews are my happy ending.  
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><p>Rumpelstiltskin wandered far and wide. Maybe. In a dreamscape, these things are flexible, and he wasn't really paying attention. He was <em>remembering<em>. Belle. His love. Lost to him… was it thirty years? Or just months? Or days? Dream time and curse time combined to disorient his sense of time, until he wasn't quite sure which end was up. Except that his feet were down there, and his head was above them, so up had to be _that _way, and wasn't he glad to have that sorted out?

He snorted. Oh, yes, very glad. The imp in him was just thrilled. Peachy.

_Damn you, Regina,_ he thought. "Damn you, your Majesty!" _Damn _the woman who had tricked him out of his love, who had gloated over the shards of his heart. _Damn_ the woman who had stolen that which was most precious to him! And damn, damn, _damn_ her for cursing them all and stealing even Belle's _memory_ from him! He'd lost all else; how could he bear to lose that as well?

"How could you!" he howled. "How could you! How could you lose her?" he screamed, as his wrath switched targets from the ethereal to one closer to hand. "How could you send her away? She loved you! You beast, you monster, she loved you! You loved her! But you stupid, stupid, arrogant imp, goblin, beast - you knew better! You knew better, didn't you! You killed her! You killed her…" he broke off with a sob, pounding his fist against a tree trunk. "I killed her…"

His storm of self-loathing abated, and Rumple rubbed his hand across his dry, red eyes, cursing, not for the first time, not for the last, that monsters couldn't cry.

It had been…decades, perhaps more, since he'd been able to shed tears. Since before his transformation. It had been a relief, at first; with his new power, no more cowardice, no more cringing, no more blubbering in fear in small corners. Now _he_ caused men to tremble, to soil themselves, to unman themselves with womanly tears. Nevermore would such water pour from _his_ eyes…!

But he could not cry when he lost his son.

Power comes at a cost, and that day, Rumpelstiltskin learned another thing that his power had cost him. He could not grieve, as a father ought to properly grieve for his son. He could storm and rage and wail and curse, but he could not cry. He could mope and mourn, sink into the earth until even his immortal powers struggled to keep him alive, but he could not cry. He could wreak havoc and destruction, but all that was cured by a snapping of fingers, easy, simple; and still, he could not cry.

Even as Mr. Gold, even in human form, on a magic-less plane where all happily-ever-afters were in permanent standby, even there, he could not cry. Dr. Whale said it was a medical condition, called it dry-eye, gave him drops and a good-luck handshake. But he could not cry; still, he could not cry.

Even here, in a dream, neither man nor monster but a phantom of both. His face went tight, the breath shook in his chest, his lungs heaved for air. His muscles grew weak until he could not stand, could only sink, could only sob, but they were dry sobs and no relief could be had from them. He could not, could not cry.

Rumpelstiltskin swallowed hard and rose, brushing the loam from his clothing, tying back his hair with a leather thong that appeared so-conveniently in his pocket, binding it out of his eyes. He ran his cool palm across his face. Were he a human, it would be red from the emotional storm; as a goblin, he was only a slightly yellower shade of green.

As he was shaking his outer appearance back into order, his dream-self was noting his surroundings. He could almost - _almost _- recognize the place. He'd been here before. Not… not _waking_, but in dreams.

He stared about him, noting the vaguely familiar landmarks, the particular angle of shadows, the way the moss grew here and not there. And he followed the pull on his gut, as if a thread were tied beneath his diaphragm and someone on the other end was pressing the treadle to draw him in.

Footsteps never faltering, he made his way off of the trail, the undergrowth whispering about his waist as he waded through it, the raindrops that lay glistening on the leaves dampening his trousers. The soft chuckle of a stream grew louder and then faded to a whisper as he bypassed the main body, following instead a tributary, if such a shallow, meandering gathering of water could be called that, up to its source among the moss and the rocks on a hillside. He was forced to use his hands to climb, to steady his boots against sliding on this slick surface. _Up there. _The thing he sought was up there, just ahead, just… there.

The cave mouth caught him by surprise, as he reached for the next handhold but didn't find it, having to scramble as forward momentum propelled him upward regardless of the lack of purchase. He lay facedown on the floor, hands outstretched before him, before pushing to his feet and continuing forward.

It wasn't far, down, and in a few turnings. The sounds disappeared behind him, as did the light, but that didn't matter; the way was lit by phosphorescing mushrooms, glowing an eldritch blue along the ceiling and floor. His feet led him, surefooted, along the passageway, and even his thinking self was united with his dream self as both yearned toward the end of the quest.

He came out into a cave; too large to be a nook, too small to be a cavern. It held at its center a pool of water, glowing bright blue from the mushrooms that grew beneath its surface, reflecting ever shifting, ever shimmering patterns on the walls and ceiling. Three hexagonal stones led from the edge to the pool's middle, where there rose a waist-high plinth, made of the purest crystal and shining with magic. The air rang with the soft chimes of bells, and in those small sounds, Rumple heard the voice of his lost love.

"Where are you...? Where are you...? Rumple? Where are you…?"

"Belle?" He whispered it. It wasn't her, it couldn't be her, but he knew her voice. It could only be her. "Belle?"

"…belle…" whispered back his echo. "…belle…"

His first step onto the stepping stones was hesitant. He didn't know what he would see here. His second, one of trepidation. Did he want to know what was here? His third, fearful. What was it…?

He turned his eyes downward, and fell to his knees on the stone steps beside the crystal, hands splayed against its hard, unyielding sides, trying against all logic to shove his way in.

For inside the crystal, Belle hung suspended. Not in sleep, but in grief, curled around herself, tears frozen to her cheeks. A single drop of moisture clung to the tip of her right eyelash. Her lips were parted in a sob. Her knees were drawn up to her belly, her right arm holding them tight, her left hand stretched out above her, to the roof of her prison, as if she could sense Rumple there. His hand hovered over hers, pushing down, down, a frustrating half inch of hard, solid glass between his flesh and hers.

"Belle!" he cried aloud. "Belle!" As if she could hear him, as if she could respond. But she looked so real, so lifelike - so alive - that he couldn't help himself. He shouted her name until his voice was raw, hammered at her crystal prison - tomb? - until his hands were bruised and bloody.

"Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in."

With raw, red eyes, Rumpelstiltskin looked up into the face of the queen. He shifted his body, so that he was between her and Belle. "What are you doing here, your Majesty?" he demanded, hoarsely.

"Moi?" The black-clad seductress touched her décolletage innocently. "I come as you have always come - at the extremity of distress, the apex of desperation, the climax of despair - to offer you a Deal."

He looked her up and down, wariness turning to weariness. "This is a dream," he said, sitting down beside Belle. His Storybrooke brogue slipped back into his voice. "You're not actually here. You bloody well sound like _me_, or how I used to. Funny; I'd have thought my subconscious would be smarter than that."

The dark haired woman stepped closer, so close to the edge of the pool that he could see the blue light flickering in the depths of her eyes. "Perhaps it's all part of the game, Rumple. Make you doubt, play with your head. After all, who knows you better than I?"

"She would have. If we'd have had the time." Rumple ran the back of his fingers down the crystal block, caressing it in lieu of his love.

"You could still have it." The voice of the queen was like oil on glass. "She's not dead you know. Just in storage. Make a Deal with me and I can tell you how to rescue her."

Rumple looked up sharply. "Not dead? You mean…she's alive?"

"Goodness, you're stupid. 'Not dead' necessarily _means_ 'alive.' Though more like hibernation, in her case. Such a long sleep…" She had crossed the stones and was now standing across from Rumpelstiltskin, leaning on the crystal block and drawing casual designs on the dry surface with a fingertip. "It's one of my specialties, you know."

Rumple batted her hand away in annoyance. "So I've heard. How do I save her?"

A predatory smile crossed her lips. "Ah. So you're willing to Deal for it, eh? Well, well, well, _that_ was easier than I thought it would be. What will the terms be, then?"

Before she could get started, Rumple cut her off. "Nothing. You _owe_ me, Majesty, and I'm calling in the favor. Tell me how to save her."

The queen laughed. "Are you sure you want to use that promise up on this? Such a valuable commodity, the favor of a sorceress and a queen. Do you really think she's worth it?"

The goblin snorted. "Aye. She's worth it. She's worth more than you, your curse, and all your happy endings put together. How's that working out, by the way? Happy, are you?"

Regina hissed, the queen's persona dropping away like a cheap coat. "You're lucky I don't just leave right now, Gold."

"But you _wo-on't_," teased Rumpelstiltskin, his fairy-tale voice back. He leaned on his elbows and waggled his fingers at her. "You're too tempted by the chance to clear the books."

Regina scowled, turned to go, then turned back with a sharp exhalation. "Fine," she said, doing the refined version of angry spitting she'd perfected in her days as a noble. "I tell you how to free her, and you cancel our former Deal? I owe you nothing?"

"Yep," answered the goblin, popping his lips on the final 'p.' "Is it a Deal?"

"It's a Deal," she said. And smiled. A cat-with-feathers-on-its-jowls smile.

And Rumpelstiltskin felt like the boat he was in had suddenly sunk right out from underneath him.

"How do you save her? Why it's simple, dear Rumple," said the queen in her sing-song voice. "You just have to cry. One tear from your eye melts that block and sets her free. Ta-ta."

She sashayed away, down the tunnel.

Rumpelstiltskin screamed after her, "Regina! Regina, you tricked me! You tricked me, you witch! Bring her back, damn you, bring her back! Reginaaaaa!" He flung himself after her retreating form, but she waved a hand back over her shoulder and the tunnel closed up, new earth forming right in front of him. He couldn't get through.

He ran back to the pool and the plinth, but they weren't there. The light had gone out, and everywhere he felt it was earth; dry, choking earth that closed in on him, pressing against his chest, closing up his lungs, squeezing him so hard that he couldn't move even a finger…!

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><p>And Gold awoke, sweating, panting, his nighttime thrashing having tangled his sheets around him so tightly that he was threatened with suffocation by his own linens.<p>

He remembered the dream, as clearly as crystal. He remembered his name. He remembered what he was.

Freeing himself, not even noticing the all-too human hands that were doing the work, the pawnbroker went to his cabinet, the place where he kept all his precious treasures.

For twenty-eight years, his mind had been fuzzy. He would look at these objects occasionally and wonder, what were they to him, that he kept them safe? Most times he forgot the thought as soon as he had it. Sometimes, a fragment of a dream would rise to the surface as he looked on his things, teasing him with hidden knowledge. _There is something wrong, here_, his mind would whisper. _Something isn't right. Look around. Don't you see it? Who are you? Who are you?_

_Who am I?_

"I am Rumpelstiltskin."

That felt right. He tried it again, rolling the syllables around in his mouth, with a tongue that didn't form the sounds correctly. The wrong accent. The wrong speech. Regina had stolen that from him as well. "Rumpelstiltskin. Rumpelstiltskin. Rrrr-_um_-pelstiltskin!" he said, trying a slight caper that only made him feel foolish.

Shaking his head, he attempted it again, a grin and a leap, followed by startlement and a near-fall as his foot landed sideways rather than flat. He grabbed his desk for stability, and the move brought his eyes directly level with a blue and white porcelain cup with a chip along the rim.

Gold reached out for it. He'd treasured it, as a memento of the girl he'd once employed in his shop, who had a penchant for dropping things but had brought sunshine into his life. They'd had an argument - he couldn't remember over what - and she'd left. Taken her car and just... driven off. Never to be heard from again. It was a memory, but, not a memory. A curse-memory.

_Belle…_

He _remembered _Belle, the real Belle. Everything he'd done, everything he'd said. Everything he'd felt. A monster _could_ feel love, he'd proved that. A monster could feel anything.

And now, this monster felt hatred. Regina was behind this. Regina was behind all of this. How she must laugh, seeing all her pawns wandering around like puppets, their minds hers to control! She must have taken especial pleasure with him, erasing his mind and his memories like a hyperactive child given an etch-a-sketch. Even his precautions, those few days of warning he'd had, to marshal his magic and his memories, hadn't been enough to save him from her curse. He'd been her dupe.

_No more, Regina. I'll not play your game by your rules. Rumpelstiltskin is back. _

But how to play this out…?

_What's different? I've dreamed before. For twenty-eight years, I've dreamed. That same dream, or most of it, the beginning. Why can I remember it now? What brought the dream to its end? What is new? _

The question answered itself. _Emma._

The new girl in town. The only new person who had ever come to town. Somehow…somehow, _she_ was the key. Regina's power was slipping, and Emma was part of it.

Gold carried Belle's cup with him to his living room. He pulled a chalice - the Holy Grail? maybe, who cared - off of his mantelpiece. He pressed his lips to the cool porcelain before placing his most prized possession in pride-of-place, at the center of his home. At the center of his heart.

He vowed vengeance on Regina. She would pay. She would pay for everything.

But as he looked at that lonely cup, small and incongruous against the heavy mahogany backdrop, Mister Gold felt his heart breaking.

He raised his hand to brush his hair back from his face, and then held it out, looking at his fingers with mild surprise.

They were wet.

He was _crying._

And somewhere within him, the imp was crying too. _Belle. Belle, hold on. I'm coming for you…_


	3. Awakening

_So. I hadn't meant to continue. Dream is over, new day begun, and all that. And then Rumpel came knocking and demanded some more head time, which turned into muse time, and my muse is so darn susceptible to dangerous, sexy baddies with a heartbreaking past that she opened the door and threw out the red carpet. Hence the next installment, and a plot line that's evolving so fast I might have to call in sick just to get time to finish it. (Not that I'd ever do that, boss, don't worry...) Just a short little blurb, but I think it fits in well with the canon so far - it'll go AU soon enough I'm sure, but for now, I'll work with all the tantalizing clues the show has given us. _

Awakening _is set just after the pilot. Emma's decided to stay for a week, Mr. Gold has met her at Granny's, and she's still mostly at sixes and sevens. Mr. Gold's confusion springs pretty much directly from natural-blue-26's prompt, which was so deliciously evocative that I had to include it. Thanks to blue, nicksmom3612, NorthernLights25, and Miss. SunFlower for your reviews - y'all kickstarted the muse and made this story possible. :) _

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><p>"Belle…" The name played around in Gold's head all morning. By noon, its significance had faded, just a syllable dancing through his mind. By closing time, the name was gone, only a vague flash of chimes every now and again, and the pawnbroker wondered why he felt like he'd come from a carillon concert.<p>

Mr. Gold wandered over to Granny's diner for supper, looking at the new girl, Emma, with a vague, appraising eye. Not bad looking, really, though he preferred his girls softer, more feminine. Still, she was ripe for a deal. He'd always had a talent for knowing when someone was desperate for something, desperate enough to sell off even their most prized possessions. He'd had a look at her car on the way in. Nothing much in there that was of interest to him; then again, the valuable trinkets were almost always small, and almost always carried on one's person.

He frowned at that thought. No, that wasn't _strictly_ true. After all, his most treasured possession was… was…

He was frowning with fierce concentration when Ruby dropped his plate down in front of him, setting his cup of hot chocolate down at his elbow. Thought disrupted, Mr. Gold tucked into his meal, sipping at his drink with a sigh that came very close to satisfaction. Granny always did make the best chocolate in town. He loved the stuff. It was the only concession he made to his perfect businessman persona, his single indulgence. The steam wafted about his nose as he inhaled the thick, rich scent that spoke of other lands, the smooth confection scalding his tongue, a river of magma down his throat as he sipped and swallowed, wiping a trace of froth from his upper lip with a napkin before setting the mug down and attending to his food. It was all right, but the chocolate… if Granny's hot chocolate was a sin, it was one he would gladly be damned for.

Funny. He couldn't remember ever being so moved by hot chocolate before.

Finishing up his meal, Gold paid his bill - he was scrupulous about that; it wasn't like he wouldn't be getting the money back shortly anyhow - and went home. Tugging the knot in his tie loose as he came through the door, he clicked the deadbolt home and sighed. Home at last.

His eyes lit on his mantle, on the small, chipped cup that sat so incongruously in a space much too large for it.

And lurched, his memories hitting him hard, so that he felt as if he'd been sucker-punched.

_Belle_. He'd forgotten again. He'd _forgotten_. He'd forgotten _her_. How could he have forgotten?

_The curse. _Even when he knew it was there, it worked on him, dulled his mind, filled his head with cotton balls and lint fluff.

_I am Rumpelstiltskin_, he reminded himself. _Belle was stolen from me. Killed. And I can't prove it, but I _know_ the queen was behind it. Regina. You will pay for my lost love. _

_How? _

Gold - Rumpelstiltskin - twitched his lip and _harrumphed. _He didn't know the exact mechanism his revenge would take, but he was nothing if not patient. He would watch for his chance. He could wait. Information was better coin than cash, and there were always those willing to deal. And to Deal.

Emma might be coerced into one of the latter, if he could find some way to arrange it. She would be a valuable player in this little chess game of his and Regina's. The mayor already hated her with a passion, though heaven knew why, she seemed harmless enough. Outwardly, anyway. Who knew what secrets lurked beneath those blonde curls? Yes, anyone who irked Regina as much as Miss Swan did was worth keeping around, if only for the entertainment value. She would make a wonderful knight. Perhaps even, with the right incentives, a queen. And Gold would eat his own boots if a man with his instincts and talents couldn't find the proper incentives to encourage desired behavior in one drifting bounty hunter.

That decided, Gold nodded firmly and went upstairs to his bedroom.

Thirty seconds later, he was back in his living room, fetching his cup from the mantelpiece. He carried it with him, cradled against his chest like a child, thumb caressing the still-sharp edge of the chip.

Somehow, this cup kept him anchored, centered. Reminded him that he was not just a small businessman in a nearly insignificant small town along the coast of a rather neglected state. He was Rumpelstiltskin.

He had a higher goal now. No more would he seek a deal for the sake of the deal. Now he had a purpose.

A smile crossed his face, one with a hint of incisor and a touch of cruelty. _Oh, Regina. Twenty-eight years, was it? You've had your way long enough. Time for me to turn your little world on its axis. You'll regret ever having messed with _me.

But that night, settling in for sleep, Gold allowed his gaze to rest on his cup, glowing in the moonlight on his bedside table. The set of his face softened. "Belle. I miss you. My love."

He fell asleep that night, one hand curled protectively about the porcelain cup which, in the end, he couldn't leave on the nightstand. It rested on the pillow beside him, his thumb pressed lightly to the chip.

He would learn to remember. He would never forget.

_I am Rumpelstiltskin. And I am coming for you, Regina._


	4. Remembering

_No Owneth OUaT. Drat. _

_Natural-blue, my muse thanks you. She was looking for an excuse to run off with my head, and your prompt write through the events of every episode was just the opportunity she needed. Mr. Gold is a fascinating mystery, far removed from my usual characters (I'm a straightforward kind of gal - you see an enemy, you pull the trigger; you see a friend, you give him your hand - subterfuge and craftiness are not my usual form of headgame), and I'm relishing the chance to write for him. Not to mention he's incredibly sexy and I'm just dying over his accent. *sigh* _

_'The Thing You Love Most' (Episode 2) provides the backdrop for this installment - well, the first half of the episode, anyway. Gold sort of ran off with me in the middle and there's material enough for another chapter waiting in the wings. Such a harsh, cruel world, where Gold gets extra muse time, isn't it? Read, enjoy, review! Reviews are my happy ending. _:-)

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><p>Mr. Gold relished his nights. His memories were coming back, slowly, slowly... Dream smoke and mirrors, they were, and often Gold - Rumpel - wondered which might be truth and which was mere shadows and stories, concocted by a brain desperate for connections between the life he lived and the life he knew was supposed to be his.<p>

He began sleeping with a notebook by his bed. The embossed pages were blank, like his memories. Soon to be filled? Gold hoped so. Every time he awoke in the middle of the night, he fumbled for pen and book, jotting down fragments and figments as they passed before his eyes, dashing off quick sketches of faces, scenery, objects: a mask, a profile, a flower, a knife. A mountain seen through a window. A pair of frightened eyes. A fire, and blood, and snow. A boy. A woman. _Regina_.

"...All you have to do is grant me one little thing, dearie!" The voice - so familiar, yet so foreign, not at all like his smooth, understated cadences - echoed through his head. "I want to be...comfortable. And whenever I come to you with any little request, you do as I ask, so long as I say... _Please!_" And the imp-voice dissolved into giggles.

Gold's fingers couldn't fly fast enough, dropping into shorthand as the conversation wafted through his mind. "Deal," said a voice. Regina's, definitely Regina's, but Gold refused to let his mind wander, writing furiously. "What must I do to enact this curse?"

"You must sacrifice a heart. The heart of the thing you love most, dearie," chirped the goblin. "You know what you love. Now go kill it."

Regina disappeared, and Gold could feel Rumpel's glee. _Tricked again!_ he cackled to himself, and then sobered. He had much to do, and little time or resources with which to do it.

Sharp iron bars spiked across the page as Gold sketched them in. _Home away from home. Not that it was much of a home. Every cage is a prison, even the cage you make yourself._

It wasn't accurate, not all of it, there was more, so much more... Gold stretched after it, but there was nothing. It was gone.

He heaved a heavy sigh and arose to prepare for the day. His journal had pitifully few pages filled in; then again, it had only been a couple of nights. "It's so _frustrating!_" he growled at his reflection. He could _feel_ the curse taking hold, foggy tendrils reaching into his brain, wrapping around his synapses and squeezing them into lassitude. He glanced aside at his cup, which he carried everywhere with him while he was in his home. _Belle. _"You know what's real," he glared at himself. "You know what's real, and it isn't this."

_Belle,_ he said to himself, then said it out loud. "Belle. The curse. The queen. _Rumpelstiltskin._"

Mentally rehearsing, listing everything he had remembered so far, he readied himself to go out. He kept early morning hours; most people were asleep at this hour of the day, and it allowed for certain... activities, things better done with few witnesses and fewer suspicions. Besides that, he found it advantageous to have an unpredictable schedule. So many deals could happen with no one the wiser.

The last thing he did before leaving the house was to tuck his journal beneath his mattress. It was far from the ideal hiding spot, and part of him wondered why he bothered. But he knew the mayor. The queen. Regina was bound to have eyes everywhere. Back in the real world, she'd been able to use every mirror, every reflective surface, as her eyes and ears.

Gold paused at that thought, pulled the journal back out, and jotted it down. His eyes strayed to the mirror above his dressing table. _No. Not here. There's no magic here._ Nevertheless, it disquieted him. It was his own face gazing out of the glass, but the reflection suddenly unnerved him, as if the person there were someone else, just pretending to mimic him. It was a perfect replica, moving in tandem with himself, every flicker, every blink. But something... something _other _lurked behind those eyes. Alien. Not-me.

He snorted at his own foolishness and pushed back from the mirror. _Stupid superstition._ He lifted the corner of the mattress perfunctorily, slid the journal underneath, and dropped the bedding back down... on empty space, the journal safely tucked up against his arm under his sleeve, out of sight of the mirror.

He slipped the book into his briefcase once he reached his mirror-less hallway. He hadn't gotten where he was today by ignoring his instincts, and everything in him said that if Regina ever once suspected he knew the truth, he would be in terrible danger. So he had to act _normally_, exactly as Gold the Pawnbroker would act, with no sudden changes that might alert the mayor.

_But does __Regina__ even know? _

Gold considered and then immediately dismissed the thought. Of course she knew. There was no plane of reality in existence where the queen would not have made provisions to know and remember _everything._ If magic could exist here, then she would be the one wielding it, he had no doubts.

He opened his front door and stepped out into the day. The early morning air was better than coffee for waking a man up in the morning. He breathed deep the fresh coolness, a faint mist blurring the edges of objects while making sounds much sharper. The slap of footsteps preceded an early morning runner long before the man himself hove into view.

Mr. Gold raised his hand in a polite wave as the runner slowed to a walk on the opposite side of the street. His shirt was seamed with lines of sweat, looking almost like frosting that had been piped on, and Gold recognized the owner of the town bakery; down on Drury Lane if he wasn't mistaken. The baker paused, puffing and blowing from his exertions, his gingerbread-colored hair damp from sweat and mist.

"Good morning!" he called to the pawnbroker.

Jerked out of anonymity, Mr. Gold raised his chin to reply, but his spoken greeting was forestalled by the sound of yapping dogs fast approaching.

"Oops!" said the runner. "Guess that's my cue to keep going. Run, run, run, as fast as I can, but they'll never catch me. Don't know why they try, really." And with that, he was off, loping fast along the boulevard.

Gold shook his head and snorted softly to himself. Extroverts. An annoying breed, really, there ought to be a law. And him with more important things to think about, like... like...

His brow furrowed as he tried to remember. What was it that he'd been thinking about? There was something important he had to remember, couldn't forget...

The mystery was still niggling at him as he unlocked his shop and let himself in. Back in his office, he rifled through his briefcase, pulling out receipts, bills, documents... and a small, leather-bound journal.

Memory tickled at the back of his mind as he turned the cover.

_You Are Rumpelstiltskin._

The words were printed large on the first page, the only ones there. _You are Rumpelstiltskin_.

_Yes. Yes, that's right._

He shut the book and closed his eyes, calling up his list. _Rumpelstiltskin... fairy tales... the queen... the curse... Belle... _The images came to him slowly, the words slower still, but they came. Practice. He would have to practice this, over and over. He could beat this curse. He would. _The resistance has rallied, Regina. You're not going to have it all your own way anymore, oh no. _He opened the journal and read it again, every word, every stroke. He would _make_ himself remember.

It was a struggle, though. By the end of the day, he was mentally exhausted from trying to hold the curse at bay. But he could do it. He could _feel_ the memories coming to him more and more easily, and they stayed longer. He could become distracted for minutes at a time, and they would still come back to them with a glance at his journal.

That was only a temporary solution, however. He couldn't haul his diary around with him wherever he went; that was just asking Regina to notice it and start asking questions. And he didn't want that. Secrecy. What others didn't know was a weapon in his hands. The more information he held, the more ammunition was in his belt, and he needed all the ammunition he could concoct to bring down the queen.

The queen. And while he was at it, the whole filthy, stinking town of Storybrooke. These people were getting just what they deserved. Liars, cheats, the lot of them. Who among them hadn't he made deals with, eh? In this world or the last. Everyone seeking to get ahead, to get by trickery what they hadn't earned, to use and abuse the magic and then plead to get out of the consequences when they fell. _There is a price for everything. _Gold knew that better than anyone. The happiness these people had taken for granted in the past had been bought with blood. It was time they repaid it.

Oh no, he didn't want to end the curse. The thought had occurred to him, but why bother? Belle was long gone in that world back there. And he was a man here. A _man_, not an imp. He wielded power. A different sort of power than he'd had, granted, but his silver tongue was still the same, and all that was essentially _him_ was still there. Craftiness, intelligence, patience; these were all he needed to be Rumpelstiltskin, no matter what guise he wore or name he used.

No. What he wanted was revenge. Of that, he was more and more certain. Regina had stolen from him. Regina had stolen _everything_ from him. She was going to pay. If he had to wait for years, if he had to scheme and plot and plan until his hair was grey, she was going to pay. He would topple her from her throne and force her to beg for mercy with her face in the dirt and ashes in her hair, her petty little kingdom falling into ruin around her. Then, only then, would he be content. Regina was done for. She just didn't know it yet.

_Just you wait, Your Majesty. Just you wait. Your doom was signed when I began to dream. I will make you suffer._

He had to find a place to hide his journal, though, someplace where none of Regina's spies would ever find it. His home, of course, but not in any of the obvious places. Mattress, floorboards, hidden desk drawers; too cliche. Let it never be said that Rumpelstiltskin was _normal_. That would never do.

Arriving home, he casually tossed his jacket over the mirror in his room, neatly covering it. It was a move he'd made many times before, one which Gold was now able to recognize as very Rumpel, with his dislike of mirrors. Not everything had changed when they'd come over then. That was a relief. He sighed and fell onto his bed, fully clothed, rubbing his palms into his eyes to try to push back his raging headache. Fighting a curse tended to do that to one. A price for everything, naturally.

Sighing deeply, he let himself relax, hands drifting up to clutch his hair as his elbows fell off to the sides. He tapped his fingers against the top of his head, drumming lightly between his skull and the headboard. _Thump. Thump. Thock._

Gold's eyes flew open, wide and alert. He repeated the motion, tapping the back of his knuckles against the solid walnut headboard. _Thock-thock._

_It's hollow._

The pawnbroker sat up and turned around, examining the space carefully. There was absolutely nothing different about that section of wood, but when he tapped around it, he found that there was a hollow place, small, right above where he customarily slept. _There has to be a catch. A hidden door. Something._

_What would I do?_ he thought.

_Well, for starters, it wouldn't be anything obvious. Something incongruous. Something that nobody would expect._

Like a wall socket, perhaps? Gold viewed it from above, one eye cocked down into the narrow space between bed and wall. The socket behind his bed hadn't worked in years, and wasn't convenient for plugging anything in, anyway; he could barely get his forearm down there. There was that bit of wire between his wall and the bed to consider, too - what could that be for? And, honestly, a man would have to be an idiot to stick anything inside a live socket.

Gold grinned and fished out his pen. Without a second thought, he jammed it inside the third hole. A faint click from deep inside the woodwork, and a piece of headboard shifted against his shoulder.

"Ah ha!" he crowed aloud, pushing himself out of the tight fit behind the bed and into a sitting position. There was a faint crack visible now, just at the edge of the hollow space. He flipped open his penknife and slid the slim blade into the gap, levering it gently outwards. The panel fell into his hands, and he set it aside, peering into the shallow depression behind.

There was something inside. Gold reached tentative hands towards it.

_What in the world...?_


	5. That Which Has Come Before

_Once Upon a Time... still isn't mine. Rats. _

_So I'm going to be blatantly screwing with our perception of canon here. Keep in mind, however, that it's _our perception_ that's getting screwed with; I think you're going to like it. Poor Gold, all his lovely plans turned on their heads... Yeah, remember in chapter 4 where I said Gold ran off with what was meant to be one chapter and turned it into two...? He did it again and turned it into three. Ah well, such fun. _

_Thanks to my chapter three and four reviewers: Emoen, Irisrose37, EditorIncredulous, natural-blue-26, becca, and Fancy-Pants Lockhart. And Editor? You're right, the Gingerbread Man dashed through my head and demanded a cameo. What else could I do but comply? Read, enjoy, review! _

* * *

><p><em>What in the world...?<em>

Gingerly, Mr. Gold reached into the hollow in his headboard. The temperature in the bedroom seemed to suddenly drop several degrees as he read the title on the cover of the small book he pulled out.

_I Am Rumpelstiltskin_.

He ran his hands across the book, assuring himself that it was real. It was there. And it had his name on it.

_Of course it does. Who else but me would hide a book in my room, right where I sleep? _

_But that would mean..._ His blood ran cold. _That would mean that this isn't the first time I've remembered my name._

* * *

><p>With great trepidation, Gold folded back the cover on the journal. He had replaced the lid to the hidden hollow and retreated to his den, a place of bookshelves and plush leather chairs, with good lighting and nary a mirror in sight.<p>

Now he stared at the words on the page. More specifically, at the date.

_Ten years ago. _

_What happened ten years ago? _

The journal had to have the answers. Gold read on.

_Dreams. Dreams haunt my nights. I am not who I think I am. I am going mad. Am I going mad? Things are stirring, stirring, stirring in the dark and I can't stop them. Images, images, familiar yet false, twisted but true, over and over and over in my brain in my head and on and on and on... What is causing this? What is happening? I am not crazy! I am not! I am not I am not Iamnot! _

_But the crazy man insists he is sane. Insists that others are wrong and he is not. But if I am _sane_ and insist I am sane... does that make me crazy? I awaken with the sense that the world is awry. That the things I do I have done before, over and over again. As in a dream. As under a curse. A curse... A curse, I remember a curse. Reality itself was destroyed. But not. I am here. I am real. Am I?_

The book meandered along these lines for pages, interspersed with drawings and sketches, memories. Gold was shaken; many of them were in his journal - his new journal. Drawn anew. These were not the meanderings of a sane man. No sane man would think these things. A curse? Another life? That dreams were somehow real?

He stared at the book in his hand. It couldn't be him. Couldn't be. It was his handwriting, his turns of phrase, but there was no possible way he'd ever become unhinged enough to write the things he read here, in this frantic, frenetic script. He wasn't crazy. He was just a fairy tale character...trapped by a curse...in a land not his own...

Gold closed his eyes. _I am not crazy. I can't prove it, but I am not._

He considered putting the journal away. He considered burning it. He was afraid of what he would find. His mind had snapped. It had to have. Was he having a relapse? Another bout of madness? Why, then, could he not remember it? If he had gone crazy before, surely there would be evidence, people would have mentioned it.

Wouldn't they?

But... if it was true... (and he wasn't sure which reality he meant by 'true')... he had to know. Had to.

He took a deep breath, and turned the page.

The handwriting here was more careful, deliberate, none of the frenzied scrawlings of earlier entries. A decision had been made. Or a revelation.

_These. Are. Memories._

_Regina has just confirmed it, though she doesn't know that she has. _

_She has asked me to procure a child for her. She is unable to conceive on her own and wishes to adopt. I told her that I would look around town for a likely candidate, but she told me no, none of the children here would do. She wanted a baby who could grow up, she said, who could be happy. I don't think she realized how much she was saying. To a mind under the curse, not much, I suppose. I told her that I would look outside the town. I would find her the perfect child to adopt. I would get her a baby._

"Henry," murmured Gold. He cast his thoughts backwards. He could remember being asked to find the child, of course. Could remember the conversation with Regina, vividly. Could remember carrying the baby from his car to the mayor's house, placing the infant in Regina's arms, seeing the smile of triumph and hope on Regina's face as she looked down on her new son.

What he couldn't remember was how he had come to choose _that_ particular boy. It had been luck of the draw, a series of phone calls and negotiations that had narrowed the field from thousands to one. Or so he'd thought...

_There is something different about the world,_ he'd written. _There is no way a curse that has held sway for eighteen years suddenly begins to fail for no reason at all. _

_My memories come back to me, in the night, in my dreams. I knew about the curse before it was enacted. The queen came to me in my cell, told me what she intended. The fool actually _believed _me when I told her she had to kill the thing she loved most. A human heart - any human heart, so long as it was harvested by the curse-caster - would have done as well. How I laughed when she left! Tricked! Forced to kill with her own hands the one person she loved above all others. Revenge is as sweet in recollection as it is in person. _

_And that is not the only memory. Snow White and her prince came to me as well. They didn't know it, but it was _I _who had crafted the curse that threatened them; them and their whole world. Snow. Beautiful Snow. She who always came through on a bargain, little though she liked it. A woman of her word. Precious few in the world have her honor. I'd have liked her, in another life, I think. But Mary Margaret is so dull without her wits about her. This curse is a damned lobotomy on all the most_ interesting _people. _

_So. Snow was pregnant with a girl-child. Would have given birth just before the curse took effect, judging from Mary Margaret's distinct lack of children in this life. Emma, her name was to be. Special girl. Big destiny. Break the curse. Roll back the Darkness. Thwart the evil queen and all her nasty little minions. _

_Lot of pressure to put on a kid who's not even a week old yet. _

_Or wasn't, anyway. Not so sure about the passage of time in my memories. Cave, you know. No sun. I'm almost positive the dwarves liked to mess with my head and play around with my sense of time - meal times at odd intervals, varying lengths of time for the guard rotation, that sort of thing. That reminds me, while I'm taking my revenge, I need to pay special attention to Leroy and his ilk. Stupid little men... _

_So why now? Why would the curse begin to fail _now_, of all times? Little Emma can't be twenty-eight yet; curse time is disorienting, but three decades haven't passed, surely. Besides, there's been no one new in town since... well, ever. _

_But why Regina's sudden interest in children? Tantalizing thought, that, she'd never expressed interest before. Not that I remember, anyway, things are all too bloody fuzzy. Well. If her interest in things outside the town is what has allowed me to start remembering__, then hip-hip-hooray and may she always be so focused elsewhere. I hate living life in a cage, especially a mental one. Almost be worth it to bring little Princess Emma here __just to keep my memories flowing. If only one could find her... _

Gold's eyes paused, rereading the last section. He could almost - almost - remember penning it. Sitting at his desk, staring at the ink on the page as the wheels spun in his head, faster and faster. Find Emma, yes, and bring her back to Storybrooke. Keep her around until it was time for her to break the curse and in the meantime, gain back his mind and his powers. And do it all...

..._under the queen's nose. I can mask my inquiries about her inside the inquiries into a child for the mayor to adopt. Who knows? I may find her yet. _

The next several pages detailed the search and subsequent failure. Two weeks worth of nothing.

And then, pay dirt.

There had been a young woman who had given birth inside a Phoenix prison cell, two weeks earlier. The boy was up for adoption, but that wasn't the interesting part.

The interesting part was the mother's name. Emma. And her history: Found abandoned on the side of the road as an infant, only a few hours old, wrapped in a blanket white as snow, eighteen years previous. Exactly the day that the curse had taken effect.

Gold had gone to Phoenix himself, the only time a member of the town had ever been allowed to leave. He was eager to meet this Emma Swan, to see if she was, indeed, the lost princess. But she had been released from prison by then and even his silver tongue could not winkle out her whereabouts. So he turned to her son, instead.

In the few, brief weeks that he had had his mind and memories back, he had learned to recognize those like himself: those who didn't belong here, whose world was somewhere else. The infant practically glowed with nascent magic; magic thwarted, magic that should have been there but wasn't, magic that was by all accounts his birthright.

_If I cannot have the mother, I will have the son,_ he had written. _With the boy in town, perhaps the curse will continue to weaken through the blood ties. Blood magic _is _the strongest magic of all__, save Love itself. And the love of a mother for her child is the strongest of all, a doubled bond of power. _

The process of adoption had gone swiftly. A negotiation here, a deal there, a Deal under the table... and Gold found himself presenting the mayor with her brand new baby boy by the time he was three weeks old.

"Henry," Regina had said, looking at him for the first time as he nestled down in her arms. She touched his little baby palm with the tip of her pinkie finger and his little fingers had curled around hers, yawning and blinking sleepily, staring up at the new stranger holding him.

_His eyes regarded her with that wisdom common only to infants, and they stared at each other, the baby and the queen, for probably thirty seconds or more. And then he began to cry; that wail that only a truly upset babe can make. He was still __howling as I drove off. I wish the queen much luck in her new role as mother. Because sure as heck she's gonna need it. _

_And on a positive note, she now owes me a big, big favor. What am I going to do with it, I wonder? The possibilities are endless.  
><em>

The journal continued, detailing memories and dreams for several days more, but the entries became shorter, more scattered, less linear.

_I am __forgetting,_ began the last entry. _Whatever I was hoping for by bringing the grandson of Snow White here, it hasn't happened. Whatever it was that allowed that lapse in the curse to happen - whether it was Henry's birth or Regina's focus on getting a baby (and was that random or specific? Because it's too much of a coincidence to me, her wanting a child at the very time that Emma was giving birth) - that hole is starting to close. I reread my diary and it sounds like a madman, like a story. I _know _the memories are mine, but I cannot own them, they don't belong to me. _

_So I must wait, with the rest of Storybrooke, until Emma arrives. Because she will come. In ten years' time, she will come, and my memories will come back to me, and time will start again. I feel I have just enough time left to me to make preparations._

_First, I will hide this journal. When I start to come to myself again, I am sure to find it. I know how I think, it shouldn't be hard to find someplace hidden from Regina which I will nevertheless find easily. _

_And secondly, I will give Emma the chance she needs to start fighting the curse. Ye gods, if I'd known how badly it would affect _me_, I'd never have crafted the daft thing. I hate cages, especially cages of my own making. But, well, I'm a craftsman. Of wood, of wool, of magic... The challenge to create the curse to end all curses was too tempting to pass up. Stupid of me, really, but there's hindsight for you. Actually, in retrospect, I'm not entirely sure I _do _want the curse lifted. It's quite comfortable here. But my mind will never be my own so long as Regina's spell is in place and uncontested. Therefore, a contest must be arranged, one which will last a long, long time, giving me the best of both worlds - my mind and my shape and the freedom of both. _

_So to give the lost princess her fighting chance: I have a book, a collection of fairy tales - the history of our world. I have imbued it with all the magic I have left to me - a mere spark, but that should be enough. I hope. - and given it to Mary Margaret, the schoolteacher, for safekeeping. Mothers and children, after all; when Emma arrives in town, the bond of blood and magic will draw them together. And when Emma reads the book, that spark will be released. It is a spell to open the mind to magic, to see the truth behind the lies. She will see the curse for what it is. Too simple, I fear, and yet I cannot make a bolder move; there is not enough magic left in me, for one thing; and for another, I don't want to chance Regina finding it, which she surely will with any stronger spell._

_And now to dreams alone I relinquish myself, to hibernate until the curse begins to crack once again. May it be a long and glorious struggle, and may the victors always be those who know how to stay on top. _

_~ Rumpelstiltskin, a.k.a. Gold_

_PS: To my older self. For heaven's sake, find some way to remember things that doesn't involve a journal. The close shaves Regina gave me with this thing have started to turn our hair grey. Or would, if time passed here. Small mercies, eh? I don't believe we shall ever be grey or bald so long as the curse is in effect. Nor free, so pick your poison apple: no hair or no mind to go under it?  
><em>


End file.
